


god only knows

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Growing Old Together, M/M, Married Couple, Slice of Life, mostly unconnected but linear drabbles !, they are........in love, uprising don't interact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 01:52:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16296032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: Newton goes grey first, much to his complete and utter dismay.





	god only knows

**Author's Note:**

> basically i just converted my own old age headcanons into fluffy sappy fic because it's what they DESERVE
> 
> and, you know, title stolen from an entirely too appropriate beach boys song

“Logically,” Hermann says, “it makes sense. We oughtn’t have expected anything else.”

“Right,” Newton says. “Totally. Hong Kong was different.”

“An entirely unique set of circumstances,” Hermann continues. “Ordinarily one wouldn’t dream of thrusting you and I—that is to say, considering our disciplines—into a shared space.”

“One lab,” Newton says.

“One lab,” Hermann agrees.

“Hm,” Newton says, and he glances around his private office with a great deal of apprehension.

Hermann’s own office is a decent walk away, down the hall and three floors up via elevator, where the physics department resides. Also private. And it’s true, Hermann knows he oughtn’t have expected anything else—Newton is a biologist, Hermann is a physicist, they were employed by the university for their respective expertise in each field—and yet he can’t help but feel a bit let down. Which is completely absurd. He and Newton _hated_ sharing a lab. They were at each other’s throats constantly. They undermined each other’s work constantly. Newton infringed upon his personal space constantly. Their work relationship suffered for it, constantly. Surely, even now, nearly half a year into marriage and even longer than that into a more personal brand of cohabitation, they would find it unbearable.

He voices this to Newton. “I guess,” Newton says, and sets a single cardboard box on his desk, which is empty save for a wildly unremarkable lamp and a neat new gold name plate that says _Dr. Newton Geiszler-Gottlieb_. Newton’s packed some photographs for decoration, Hermann knows (most of the two of them together), as well as a rather large cactus that Newton will undoubtedly manage to kill in a month's time. “It’s gonna be kinda weird, though.”

Hermann squeezes Newton’s hand. “I don’t doubt we’ll manage, dear.”

Newton packs up his cardboard box and moves to Hermann’s office after precisely one week of lonely lunches and bribing students with extra credit to run letters between them (because email just wasn't the _same)_. They did try, at least.

 

* * *

 

Newton goes grey first, much to his complete and utter dismay.

He finds his first grey hair a week after his fortieth birthday, which means, of course, that he’d already been _touchy_ on the subject of aging and growing older. (The way he seems to see it, it's the universe kicking him while he’s down.) Hermann’s showering when Newton—brushing his teeth, and generally preening himself—makes the discovery, but Newton’s sudden shout of alarm makes Hermann jerk open the curtain frantically and stick his head out. “What’s wrong?” Hermann says, leaning on the small bar they’d installed for him in the shower and blinking shampoo out of his eyes as Newton tugs at a fistful of his own hair and waves his toothbrush about madly.

“I’m old!” Newton says.

A large glob of toothpaste slips from his toothbrush to the tile floor. Hermann slides the curtain shut.

“Her _mann_ ,” Newton whines piteously, and Hermann sticks his head back out again.

“We’ve been over this before, my love,” Hermann says with far more gentleness than Newton deserves. “Forty is hardly—” He spies what’s upset Newton so: the single, solitary grey hair poking out from Newton’s fingers. “Oh.”

“It’s not fair,” Newton whines again. “You’re _older_. It should be you.”

“By half a year,” Hermann scoffs, and Newton pouts and starts trying to comb the rest of his still-brown hair over the grey with his fingers. “Oh, Newton, it’s one strand.”

“Today it is,” Newton says. “By next week—”

“It’s to be _expected_ of men of our age.”

“‘Of our age,’” Newton moans. “Just say _old_ , Hermann.”

Hermann watches him fuss over himself, debating turning the shower off and having Newton help him out to the bathmat so he can deal with the esteem of his poor, _terribly_ aged husband that way, but Hermann’s only just stepped in and he has a head full of soap so it doesn’t seem like the most effective course. “Newton,” he says instead, “darling, come here.”

Newton’s eyes dart over towards him, and then he quickly shucks off his worn t-shirt and equally worn boxers and climbs into the shower with Hermann. He wraps his arms around Hermann immediately, accepts the proffered kiss, but the moment Hermann begins planting kisses along Newton’s neck instead Newton’s mind has wandered once more. “One week,” Newton says to the ceiling. “One week, and it’ll _all_ be grey, I’m telling you.”

“And you’ll be handsome just the same,” Hermann murmurs, choosing not to comment on what they both know is a biological impossibility. He manages to distract Newton with more kisses, eventually.

 

* * *

 

Newton has the staggering ability to make a show out of everything, Hermann’s learned over his years and years of knowing the man, from lecturing to vacuuming to dissecting to brushing his teeth. Today, he’s volunteered himself for the task of raking the front lawn, and Hermann doesn’t know why he imagined Newton would approach _that_ any differently. Newton’s wearing his softest old brown flannel with the sleeves pushed up and tight, cuffed jeans, and he’s definitely flexing his arm muscles a bit more than strictly necessary. Not that Hermann has any complaints: he wouldn’t be sitting on the porch and braving the steadily-dropping autumn temperatures to ogle Newton if he did.

“You're not being very subtle,” Newton calls to him, and Hermann tears his eyes away from Newton’s ass and fixes them on the rough manuscript for their jointly-published research.

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you mean,” Hermann says, adjusting his cardigan over his shoulders. He clears his throat. “Er. Chapter two is satisfactory.” He takes a sip from his mug just as Newton bends over to scoop up a handful of leaves for depositing in a recyclable lawn bag, and Hermann drops his pencil, sloshes tea down his front, and nearly chokes. Those jeans fit Newton _magnificently._

“You sure you don’t?” Newton says, casting a cheeky grin over his shoulder.

“Ah,” Hermann says.

 

(Their house is chilly that night, so they light their fireplace and Hermann switches out his cardigan for Newton's flannel, and he stretches his legs out in Newton's lap and Newton showers his face with kisses while they proofread together.)

 

* * *

 

Newton is fully grey by his fifty-first birthday and just as touchy on the subject as he was some eleven years prior, and no amount of reassurance that Hermann still finds him wonderfully attractive soothes him: he buys brown hair dye, he frets over himself in the mirror, he puts in strange product he finds online and even stranger product he concocts in their basement with dubiously-acquired chemicals. Today, he’s rubbing his hand over his jaw and squinting at his reflection in the mirror while Hermann does his very best to distract him once more. “Maybe I should grow a beard,” he says, as Hermann plants kisses up his neck and creeps his hands up Newton’s shirt.

“Mm?”

Newton eyes his razor up contemplatively where it rests on the sink. “I should grow a beard,” he repeats. “It might make me look younger.”

“I must say I question your logic,” Hermann says, fingers splayed across Newton’s pudge, but Newton has a determined look in his eye when he pushes the razor into the trash can. “Generally—”

“Half of our students have beards, Hermann,” Newton cuts in, “it’s hip, it’s in, it’s youthful—” and Hermann can see he’s prepared to launch into a more elaborate explanation, so he quickly angles him in for a proper kiss to cut him off. A surefire way to silence his husband, tested and true.

 

Newton’s beard comes in grey as well, of course, as Hermann fully expected (and as Newton _should’ve_ fully expected), and Hermann adores the way it looks on him all the same. He doesn’t quite adore the way it feels when Newton kisses him, though. “It’s rather _scratchy_ , isn’t it?” Hermann pants, as Newton sucks hickeys across his collarbones. Newton pushes himself up on his elbows, guilt twisting his features.

“Shit, babe, I’m sorry,” he says. Hermann cups his cheek before he can pull away and slides his hand across the beard, feeling it rasp beneath his fingers. It’s scratchy, but Hermann’s sure he can learn to like it. Love it, even, as much as the rest of Newton.

“Though,” Hermann says, smiling up at Newton, and Newton breaks out into an identical, though significantly shyer, smile, “it does make you look _very_ mature.” It does: between it, his slightly-less-unkempt grey hair, and his ever-increasing laughter lines, Newton is no longer just handsome. He’s irresistible. “And distinguished,” Hermann continues. “Terribly distinguished, in fact.” He pulls Newton back down on him and rubs his face against the beard, and Newton makes a purring sound like a happy cat.

 

* * *

 

“Hermann,” Newton says, faint and sleepy. “Dude. We gotta get up.”

Hermann nuzzles in closer against Newton’s back, purposely ignoring him. He’s got his left leg propped up delicately across Newton’s calves, and more importantly, a hand up Newton’s t-shirt with his fingers curled firmly around his left love handle. Newton has always been soft and warm and lovely to hold, but he’s gotten even more so with age.

(Ten years or so into their retirement from the PPDC, Newton—suddenly wildly insecure about his body, which had gotten quite out of shape from the combination of proper daily meals, Hermann’s frankly excellent baking skills, and a lack of wartime rationing—took to jogging every evening and _dieting_ in an attempt to lose some weight. It worked, but it was short-lived once Hermann did a _very poor_ job of hiding his disappointment at his husband’s significantly less soft body, and Newton, relieved, buried his running shoes in the hall closet with his gym bag and indulged himself in Hermann’s baking once more.)

“Five minutes,” Hermann says, squeezing Newton’s side.

“Hermann,” Newton repeats. “Honey, we have _classes_ to teach.”

Hermann wiggles another hand up Newton’s shirt and starts squeezing at his soft, pudgy stomach instead. “Mm-hmm.” He noses against the back of Newton’s neck.

“ _Dude_ ,” Newton says, but Hermann squeezes him a little more and he loses all fight. “Five minutes,” he concedes, but he turns in Hermann’s arms and starts kissing him thoroughly in a way that makes Hermann doubt either of them will be making it into the university on time today.

 

* * *

 

Hermann imagines it must’ve seemed like a magnificent, romantic gesture on Newton’s part, at the time, a proper celebration of their twenty years of marriage, but unfortunately, once they’ve made it back from the restaurant it becomes clear it’s the _opposite_ situation. They’ve had a bit too much champagne, for one thing, and Newton—at the ripe age of fifty-six—isn’t exactly as _virile_ as he once was, so—

“Newton,” Hermann slurs, clinging to Newton’s neck for dear life, “ah, dear—dear man, Newton, I don’t—”

Newton attempts to take a step up the staircase and stumbles back again. Hermann hears him huff, and then he hoists Hermann up a bit higher in his arms. “We’re fuckin’ doing this, dude,” Newton says. “I have, like, rose petals up there. More champagne. And, like, candles.”

“Not lit, I should hope,” Hermann says. Fire hazard, and all that.

“I don’t _think_ ,” Newton says, and manages to stagger up one stair. He crows in triumph.

“Oh!” Hermann exclaims, pleasantly surprised neither of them have tumbled to their deaths yet. “Well _done,_  Newton,” He bumps his lips against Newton’s chin in semblance of a messy kiss; Newton smells like too-much cologne, three different types of alcohol, and some chocolate cake from the restaurant. He’s smeared the cake on his nice, clean shirt, too. Hermann pokes at it. “Look,” he says, “you’ve made an—ah, a mess of yourself.”

“Huh?” Newton says. He takes another step up.

Hermann suddenly recalls they’ve left his cane in the foyer, where it clattered to the floor when Newton—in a fit of drunken, amorous passion—unceremoniously scooped Hermann up into his arms like he had on their wedding night and declared he would carry him to bed. He doesn’t need it now, certainly, but tomorrow morning he doubts he’ll feel like waiting for Newton to wake up and get it for him. “Newton,” he mumbles into Newton’s collar. “My cane, dear.”

“Don’t need it,” Newton says, swaying unsteadily. “I got you.”

“But tomorrow.” Hermann pokes him again. “I’ll need it—”

Newton swears, then takes a heavy step back down one stair, then back down the other. “Yeah, you’re right. Fuck, okay—” His hold on Hermann tightens and he trips into the living room, where he deposits Hermann, as unceremoniously as he picked him up, onto the couch. Hermann blinks up dazedly at him, and takes in his wonderfully handsome husband: Newton’s rosy-cheeked, messy-haired, his glasses hanging off the end of his freckled nose, and he’s attempting to tear off his tie as quickly as possible. He gives up after a minute, seemingly only having made the knot tighter, and falls to his knees on the carpet instead. “Total waste,” he says mournfully, presumably of the rose petals and candles and champagne, but he’s wasted no time in scooting forward and pressing kiss after kiss across Hermann's cheeks. Hermann debates mentioning that they could simply walk up the stairs _together_ , but Newton is quite distracted.

“Were we twenty years younger,” Hermann murmurs, as Newton scrambles up onto the couch with him and straddles him. (Twenty years ago, he’d known Newton for thirteen years, and Hermann realizes with a jolt they’ve spent over half their lives together.) He wraps his arms tight around Newton and feels tears—foolish, happy tears—prick the corners of his eyes. “Newton,” he says, urgent and as drunk on his husband as he is on the champagne, “Newton, darling, I love you.”

“I love you _too_ ,” Newton says, and his attempt to kiss Hermann fails and results in his nose simply bumping against Hermann’s chin. He giggles a little. “Whoops. Okay.” He doesn’t miss Hermann’s lips this time, and Hermann wipes his tears away furiously when Newton pulls away to gaze down at him. “Dude. Hermann. Babe. Are you—”

“I’m just very glad to be married to you, is all,” Hermann says, with a watery laugh. Twenty long years, Newton’s been his husband. Thirty-three years ago, Newton was his pen pal. Hermann’s every bit in love with him now as he was then.

Newton laughs, and Hermann see his eyes, too, are a bit wet. “Sap,” Newton says, and then, so serious and sincere that Hermann’s heart thuds painfully in his chest, “I'm glad too, Hermann.”

 

Their hangover the next morning is nightmarish.

**Author's Note:**

> them.........
> 
> twit: @hermanngaylieb, tumblr: hermannsthumb, where i post other fic!


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